


Echoes of Mercy

by Ceallaigh



Category: Star Wars, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Gen, Kylo Ren Redemption, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Non-Sexual Slavery, Self-Discovery, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-07-15 04:20:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7207604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceallaigh/pseuds/Ceallaigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kylo Ren had failed his master. He deserved what he was receiving, he feebly reminded himself. And in that solitary agony, his master would reveal the tender mercies of his lesson. He needed to be patient. The journey would either destroy what remaining light dwelled within him or would set him free. Set immediately following The Force Awakens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The bacta lesson

Kylo Ren hated bacta. It lent itself to claustrophobic madness. He’d only been submerged in a bacta tank twice before in his life, and each time he was convinced the sticky, viscous fluid would suffocate him before the healing process was complete. This time was no different.

He opened his eyes as his mind flitted on the verge of consciousness. The world around him was nothing more than a pink, blurred haze, and he wasn’t sure if it was the sedative qualities of the regenerative bio agent or the multitude of his injuries that likely landed him in the column that prevented him from escaping the purgatory between dreams and reality. 

His limbs dangled weightlessly, and the only thing he heard was the rhythmic air exchange through the breathing regulator inserted into his mouth and perhaps the distant beat of his own heart. He tried to focus on the bubbles escaping the mouthpiece every time he exhaled, but the darkness called to him again, that inky black oblivion of unconsciousness reached through the bacta to pull him back under.

Kylo struggled to remain awake. Bacta therapy was supposed to be peaceful, perhaps even blissful. At least that’s what he read when he was younger. Quiet and nurturing, the very nature of the fluid was supposed to generate healing environment.

But not for him. His master saw to it. Snoke was always there in those folds between awareness and dreams to remind him of his failures. The bacta didn’t excuse him from the discipline he deserved for his mistakes. Rather the bacta became the discipline. Where there was supposed to be a calming analgesia that numbed all of the pain and quieted the mind, he only found reprimand and agony. 

As his eyes slipped shut, his master whispered to him. Kylo couldn’t quite make out the words, but they never ceased. Disappointment, anger, punishment. The same condemnation that had taken the place of his master’s empowering encouragement so many years ago, the same condemnation he had heard every day of his adult life. He was supposed to be the Supreme Leader’s shining accomplishment but once again he was reminded that he was Snoke’s greatest failure. And in that purifying pain of punishment was where his master wanted him to find the enlightenment that continued to elude him. 

Somewhere along the way, he could no longer distinguish between reality and dream. In that moment his head exploded in pain, overpowering, and every nerve in his body felt like it had been set on fire with a thousand unseen flames, as if he was being burned from the inside out. He weakly thrashed his limbs in an attempt to desperately claw his way to the surface, but his arms and legs gained no traction in the viscous fluid. In the muted distance, he felt his foot strike against a curved wall. 

The claustrophobia was overwhelming. Even the breathing apparatus strapped to his head was suffocating him beyond belief. His chest ached for oxygen, and his heart pounded against his ribcage. He was certain it wasn’t air that filled his lungs but rather molten lead. He fumbled at the strap that secured the regulator in place, but his fingers did not have the strength to tear it from his face. There would be no escape. Surely he would burn to death while he drowned simultaneously.

His weakness betrayed him again. In his head he cried for help, for mercy, for anyone to come and save him. He begged for respite, for death, for anything, for this all-consuming pain, this choking and suffocating fear to end.

Kylo Ren wrestled one last time with the envelope of awareness. He opened his eyes only to see the angry flurry of bubbles dance around his face as he screamed into the regulator, and the ragged sound of own voice hung trapped in the bacta’s syrupy matrix.

At that moment, his prayers appeared to have been answered. The tank slowly began to descend into the floor below him as he continued to hang from the harness that held him in place and the remnants of the bacta dripped from his limbs. His arms and legs suddenly felt very heavy. A hatch closed over the floor, sealing the column of bacta off from the transparisteel tube that still encased Kylo Ren. He didn’t have any time to react. Cold jets of water sprayed from above and below. They stung against his bare flesh, rinsing his hair and skin from the bacta that still clung to it. The water was freezing cold, and he turned his head to the side in a desperate attempt to avoid the worst of the blast to his face.

He was shivering by the time the jets cycled off and the outer wall of the therapy tank also descended into the floor. The lights in the room powered on, and brightness hurt his eyes. He put up no struggle as he felt the harness holding him in place lower him toward the ground and two sets of hands removed the weighted belt from his waist. They grabbed him and pulled him over to a waiting gurney. The team of technicians quickly unbuckled the regulator and retrieved the nose clip, lifted his head to remove the strap and disengaged the mouthpiece while another tech freed him from the shoulder harness.

Kylo’s breath came in ragged gasps, and he couldn’t stop shaking. He was no different than a newborn – completely naked, soaked and overwhelmed by the harsh world around him. So very cold, he could feel his skin erupt with goosebumps everywhere, and he was powerless to stop his teeth from chattering and the rigors from laying claim to his body. The techs wasted no time and began to towel him down. Even though they quickly dried him off with clinical efficiency, they seemed to ignore that he was even there and had no regard for comfort.

He all but cried out as the towel scrubbed the tender area on his left flank. The bowcaster wound was still fresh and not fully healed. As much as he hated bacta, he wished he’d been allowed to remain in the tank a little longer so that the blaster wound could have been erased entirely. But the Supreme Leader would never let that happen. He’d never allow the bacta to remove the pain and scars completely. Each scar was a reminder, a lesson unto itself, Snoke had taught him years before. The bacta would save his life again, there was no question about it. But the scars would remain a daily reminder of his past transgressions. He’d live with the puckered scar on his side as well as the gash that carved his face in two forever.

Kylo rolled to his right side, the journey sapping him of any energy that still remained in his body. He was beyond exhausted. Sleep called to him like a beautiful siren in the distance, but he knew that as well as nourishment would be something he would not see for a while. The lesson Snoke wanted him to learn was not complete. There was never time for inane comforts when his master wanted his undivided attention. He knew that rest and even his next meal would not come until the Supreme Leader was satisfied that the light that still stubbornly flickered inside him like a hidden flame as well as the vestiges of that weakling Ben Solo shone just a little less.

He had failed his master. He deserved what he was receiving, he feebly reminded himself. And in that solitary agony, his master would reveal the tender mercies of his lesson. Kylo needed to be patient. 

It was not as though he could eat anyhow. He could still taste that mushroomy, earthiness of the bacta on his tongue. It turned his stomach, and the bilious wave of nausea rose. His mouth watered uncontrollably just like it did when he was a child right before he was going to vomit. Without warning, he gagged once, and the mending flesh on his flank tugged painfully at his side as he retched up what little was in his stomach. Without saying a word, one of the technicians had a surgisteel basin waiting at his mouth to collect the contents. It wasn’t much more than a mouthful of stomach acid, but it felt like the lining of his stomach exited with it. Kylo wordlessly nodded as the tech took the basin away and dabbed his lips with a towel.

A dull headache blossomed behind his eyes and he pulled his forearms around his head to shield himself from the light. The Force hovered no closer than a fingertip out of reach. His master’s doing, no doubt, and Kylo could only glance its surface with his mind. There would be no solace in its energy. It felt like part his very being had been cleaved away. He would have to ride out the rigors and wait for them to subside alone. He allowed his eyes to close and he focused on his breathing. It was the closest thing to meditation at this point, and he needed to center himself somehow.

He didn’t bother to look up when the door opened with a whoosh and he could hear the sound of footsteps approaching. Hux, he knew it was him from clipped cadence of other man’s boots striking the floor. The general drew close to the gurney and didn’t say a word as he surveyed what he saw. Kylo could feel his eyes boring into him, but was too fatigued to acknowledge his visitor.

They stood there in an awkward silence for a few moments until Kylo weakly let out a gasp when Hux curiously probed the freshly healed wound on Ren’s flank with his finger. “I see you have decided to join the living,” Hux observed, his voice filled with a cold and impersonal disdain.

Kylo finally opened his eyes, he saw the general curiously studying the bacta residue on his fingers as he rubbed the sticky colloid between his finger and thumb. When Hux’s curiosity evaporated, he wiped it off on the sheet covering the gurney’s mattress. Surely he wasn’t going to soil his perfectly pressed uniform with an oily bacta stain.

“I’ve taken the liberty of having your clothing delivered here,” Hux said, his voice nothing more than a combination of condescension and disgust. He’d always been an insufferable, pompous weasel. He could’ve sent one of his enumerable lackeys as his errand boy to deliver the clothing. No, Hux wanted to gawk like he always did. He’d never turn down an opportunity to mark his territory and properly piss in all the corners. 

“Get dressed,” Hux added coldly. “The Supreme Leader has summoned you.”

Kylo knew this was coming from the moment his bacta session was complete. And he knew the routine—kneel before his disappointed teacher and wait. No sense even trying to make up excuses or begging for mercy. Those were the actions of a weakling Ben Solo that still clawed at the corners of his subconscious. 

“Leave,” Kylo spat out in his best attempt to sound powerful, but he knew at that moment, it was just a farce. “All of you.”

Hux sneered but acquiesced. Turning on a heel, he quickly strode out of the room and exited to the waiting hallway. The medical technicians followed suit. They set their towels on the counter and exited through the other set of doors leading to the inner workings of the medical bay.

Kylo didn’t move for several minutes. He savored the solitude and tried to gather his bearings. He wasn’t quite sure where he was. The last thing he recalled before waking up was the ice melting against his cheek as his own blood stained the snow red and the Starkiller Base starting to crumble beneath him. That girl—Rey—had bested him, the Force that flowed her was raw and unbridled. And yet she had managed to drop him to his knees with his own former lightsaber, the one his grandfather had made and his uncle had gifted to him so many years ago. It had called to her, and she had branded him with it. 

How would he explain that to the Supreme Leader? He was supposed to have handed that little urchin over to Snoke, but instead she had left him broken and bleeding in the forest.

His failure was complete, and he was about to pay for it.

Finally, he pushed himself to a sit and dangled his long legs off the medical cart. His head swam for a moment, and he waited for the spots dancing in vision to subside. Everything ached. Only then did he realize where he was. The Finalizer. Where the destroyer was located is space was anyone’s guess.

Slowly he slid his feet to the floor and stood. The durasteel flooring was cold beneath his feet. Kylo picked up one of the discarded towels and scrubbed it through his hair to remove the last hints of bacta as he spied his clothing folded on a chair by the door. Wincing, he felt like he was a hundred years old as he stiffly crossed the room.

And so he got dressed as he did every day. There was a certain level of comfort in the ritual of covering up that coward Ben Solo and cloaking himself in the darkness that was Kylo Ren. First the base layer. Then the leggings and arm guards. Next would come neck wrap and the surcoat that hid his lean frame and made him appear broader and larger than he did when he was soaking wet.

When he got to the belt, he ran his fingers against the underside until he found what he was looking for. A tiny tracker. He hadn’t realized it was even there until just then. It must’ve been how the soldiers had found him in the snow. He was disgusted that he hadn’t realized it sooner. That micromanaging Hux had chipped him like a pet, no doubt to keep tabs on him. As soon as he had located the device he picked it out of the belt with his fingernails. He studied it for a moment before walking over to the sink. He deposited it in basin and turned on the tap, watching intently as the tiny tracker vanished down drain.

Kylo cupped his hands under running water and allowed it to pool into them. Bringing his hands to his mouth, he drew in a sip of water. It tasted metallic, like it had been processed through the ship’s recycling unit too many times to count. He swished it around his mouth to rinse away the acrid taste of vomit before spitting it into the sink. He repeated the process twice before turning the tap off.

There was one more thing to do before he pulled on his boots and faced his master. Kylo activated the view screen above the screen and waited for it to power on. He knew it was there, but it still took his breath away when he saw it in his reflection in the screen. She had marked him.

Even though the bacta had erased the rawest of its edges, that angry red scar that the scavenger had given him carved his face in two. It started at the medial edge of his left eyebrow. How he didn’t lose an eye or his nose was beyond him. It cut a diagonal path down his right cheek, and he could feel its tail come to an end over his right shoulder under his arm guard. It would be months before the scar would fade to a silvery white, but he knew it would still disfigure him forever. Wordlessly, he watched the haunted figure in the screen trace the gash, his fingers committing the injury to memory.

It was in those moments that he saw his former self staring back at him, and he hated Ben Solo all the more for it. It wasn’t a great warrior that he saw in the reflection. What he saw was fear and weakness. He saw a fool in over his head. Kylo Ren thought he had killed that pathetic boy as he stood on that bridge and ran his lightsaber through his fath…Solo, his name was Han Solo. He meant nothing to him.

Ending that old man’s life was supposed to fix this. That runt should have vanished with Han Solo beneath the bridge. But there he was staring back at him, that stubborn flicker of the light still burning brightly at his very core. No matter how hard he tried to pinch out that light, that naïve fool, no matter how scared he was, kept offering it to him as gift for the taking.

With a backhanded blow, he struck the screen with the bottom of his fist. The screen cracked into glassine spider web of a thousand fractures, and the image winked out. If he couldn’t kill that coward once and for all, he damned well had better hide him, he thought to himself. So Kylo did the only thing he knew he could. He finished dressing—boots, belt, gloves, and cowl.

He didn’t have his helmet to hide behind. It ominous visage had likely melted with the rest of Starkiller Base. As he palmed the control and exited into the waiting hallway, he tugged the hood of his cowl over his head. If he didn’t have his mask, he would just have to make do retreated into the darkened folds of his hood.

+++++

Hux was nowhere to be seen as Kylo entered the Supreme Leader’s audience chamber. His master remained nearly a galaxy away, hidden in a temple that he had only seen once. And even then, its location was shrouded in secrecy. He couldn’t locate it on a galactic map as he tried. But Snoke was already there waiting for him in the darkness of the chamber, his image would not materialize until he fell to his knees in supplication.

He wordlessly crossed the room and pulled back the hood. He tried to take a centering breath to calm his frayed nerves, but when he exhaled, it was anything but calming. No sense delaying the inevitable. That would only draw his master’s wrath. 

He dropped to one knee and lowered his head. Trying his best to shove that traitorous fear back into the deepest recesses of his mind, he knew it was all but an act of futility. Finally, after he had no other place to go, he beckoned Snoke forth in the ritualized submission he had been taught so many years before.

“What is your bidding, my master?”

He kept his head down as the light began to coalesce on the dais in front of him until the image of Supreme Leader Snoke materialized. It was ten meters tall and every bit as terrifying.

“Kylo Ren,” Snoke began, “I trust you have had time to heal from your injuries?”

“I have,” he lied. His side still burned, and he was well aware the bacta therapy had been cut short. But there was only one answer that was acceptable. Anything else was a concession of weakness. “Thank you, Supreme Leader.”

This is where the lesson would come. Kylo needed to listen. He needed to learn.

“And what did you discover from your battle with the girl?”

That he was bested by an untrained novice? Did he learn once again his overconfidence in his own abilities was his greatest liability? Or did he discover it simply that he deserved to bleed out and die on that collapsing superstation? He was never very good at playing this game of verbal cat and mouse with his master. He knew whatever answer he could muster would be wrong. So instead of attempting to fail at philosophy, he went with the painfully obvious.

“She is very strong with the Force,” was all he could manage to say.

“Perhaps even stronger than you, my apprentice,” Snoke answered. “That is why I had commanded you to bring her to me. Yet I see no girl before me. I only see you. Why is she not here, Kylo Ren?”

This lesson was going to hurt, Kylo silently told himself. He could already tell. Discipline always followed failure. It would make him stronger, he lied to himself. He had to prove to his master he was worthy of the forgiveness that would come when the screams would end and the Supreme Leaders calming darkness would envelop him in its wake.

The healing scar on his face itched, and suddenly there was nothing more than he wanted to do than to scratch it. “She got away,” Kylo whispered.

“Incorrect,” Snoke hissed. Kylo closed his eyes as he felt his master’s anger wash over him. “She is not here because she defeated you. A little desert child with no training whatsoever bested you with your own former lightsaber as though she was the skilled pupil and you were but the unlearned wildling.”

There was no other answer than to concede defeat. “Yes, Supreme Leader.”

“Then why did you offer to teach her?” Snoke asked in a hushed tone. “Did I not command you to bring her to me?”

There was a price for disobedience. Always. And there were even worse consequences for dishonesty. The Supreme Leader always knew. There was no lying with Snoke. There was absolutely no room for subterfuge. Kylo bore the scars from making that mistake in the past. He knew it was futile to fabricate excuses.

“I am sorry, master,” he answered. There was no sense begging for mercy at this point.

“Your disobedience has led to disastrous consequences,” Snoke pointed out. “The droid, where is it?”

“I don’t know,” Kylo whispered.

“The map,” his mastered said. “Surely you must have the map to Skywalker by now.”

Kylo let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. There would be no hiding during this interrogation. “I do not,” he finally admitted.

“And what about my weapon?” Snoke asked, his voice as icy as ever. “What happened to Starkiller Base while you were busy chasing the girl?”

“It’s gone,” he answered as he started to tremble. The silence in the chamber was deafening. The blood roared in his years, and if he listened closely he could even make out the faint hum of the Finalizer’s ventilation system. The silence was the worst. Wrath always followed silence, and he could already feel that growing fury simmering beneath the surface, ready to erupt at any moment.

“I asked you to bring me the map. Instead you thought a girl would be more useful,” Snoke spat out. “I commanded you to bring the girl to me, yet you disobeyed me and offered to teach her instead. I asked for a simple map and you give me nothing. What have you touched that hasn’t turned to ash, Kylo Ren?”

“Nothing,” Kylo admitted, the confession barely audible yet it echoed off every wall in the chamber, pregnant with a prayer for mercy he neither expected nor deserved.

“What is it about the girl that you allowed everything to unravel?”

Kylo felt the Supreme Leader enter his head. The Force was still absent around him, and he could not buffer Snoke’s intrusion. It was brutal and agonizing. Kylo clenched his teeth and let out a strangled cry as the Supreme Leader probed deeper. He as all too familiar with this torture technique. By its very design it was meant to be painful, especially to those who could not use the Force to resist. After all, it was the same probe he used on his own victims. 

“I don’t know,” Kylo groaned, his breath labored and uneven. Without the Force, he was utterly defenseless.

“Do not lie to me!” the Supreme Leader demanded. 

One moment it felt like Kylo’s head was about to explode. The next, the pain abated, in its void a soothing respite of silence. Tears he didn’t realize were swimming in his eyes broke free and slid down his cheeks. It took everything in his power not to collapse to the floor.

“Compassion,” Snoke said. He’d found what he was looking for, and there was no hiding his disgust. “You have compassion for the girl, and it makes you weak.

“The light still calls to you. I thought you had extinguished it and were prepared to complete your training, but I was sorely mistaken.”

Panic gripped at Kylo’s very core. He’d never failed his master on this magnitude. “Supreme Leader…”

“Do not beg,” Snoke spat back and he leaned back in his chair. “It is I whom have failed you. I overestimated you. You are not ready yet to complete your training. You still have much to learn. Tell me, my apprentice, how does it feel to know the Force is surrounding you at this very moment but you cannot touch it?”

Snoke was right, Kylo could feel its energy buzzing everywhere yet each time he tried to connect with it, the Force slid further out of reach. The more he wanted to cloak himself in its power, the more he felt naked kneeling before his master.

“As if I was missing my own arm,” he answered. It was the only way he could describe its absence. He felt incomplete without it.

Snoke leaned forward in contemplation. “Perhaps the next stage of your training should be solely focused on your connection with the Force. It is time you begin to appreciate how a true master of the dark side is a vessel for the Force’s full potential and how one devoid of it is nothing more than a useless bag of bones.”

This was the lesson Snoke was granting him. He didn’t understand it yet, but Kylo greedily accepted it. He only prayed he would live up to his master’s expectations. He wasn’t going fail him again, because he knew there would be no more second chances.

Kylo bowed his head and awaited the Supreme Leader’s final benediction. He was ready to accept whatever Snoke was merciful enough to offer. He would accept any pain that came with enlightenment. It was there that he would earn the right to complete his training. He would snuff out the light, no matter the cost.

“As you wish, my master,” he said offering himself to Snoke with absolute submission.

Kylo did not see his master’s image dissolve. He did not hear any further instructions. The Force consumed him from all sides. He did not hear the scream that tore from his own mouth, nor did he feel his body crash to the ground as it convulsed uncontrollably. 

The blackness consumed him entirely, and the world slipped away into a numb nothingness.

++++

The slave transport docked with Weapons Factory Alpha. Armed First Order handlers awaited the airlocks to connect and the docking bay door to open with a loud hiss. Slavers with tazers led several dozen humans from the transport and into waiting bay. Shackled at the wrists with stun cuffs tethered their waists, the slaves squinted as they adjusted to the bright over head lights. For the most part they were younger adults, some likely not even of age. Their home planets varied. Only the chips imbedded in their left forearms would tell their stories.

Weapons Factory Alpha dated back to the height of the Galactic Empire. Located on Cymoon 1 in the Corellian Industrial Cluster, it had quickly fell into the hands of the First Order as the reformed Republic splintered. A shining example of Imperial efficiency back in the day, propaganda long touted it as a weapons factory that was completely automated, so efficient that it was run by a computer matrix that bordered on sentient thought.

In actuality the blasters, thermal detonators, ion cannons and plasma mortars that were produced around the clock at the facility by nothing more than slave labor. Sentients of all species classified by their strengths, intelligence and ability and then assigned tasks depending on those abilities to keep the war complex running on schedule. At the height of the Empire, it took three thousand slaves working around the clock to continue to supply the Imperial Military with a continues supply of weaponry, each working eighteen hours a day with little nourishment and even less sleep.

By the time the First Order had assumed control, Alpha had all but been abandoned. Yet within two years of claiming the facility, the First Order had it up and running with an efficiency that would be the envy of any Imperial installation. 

But like its predecessors, the First Order quickly learned that it required a never ending supply of slaves to keep up with demand, sentients that could be literally worked to death and easily replaced with fresh bodies. Only the First Order didn’t just rely on non-human slaves to keep the installation running like the Empire did a generation before. The First Order actively sought human slaves as well, all under the guise of an enviable efficient lie—fully automated.

“Form ten rows and wait to be processed!” a First Order lieutenant yelled to the slaves that began to fill the room.

“This looks like a load of garbage,” the lieutenant’s assistant said. She sneered over her datapad at the assortment of tattoos, scars and mismatched clothing. 

Half had shaved heads—likely exhausted and strung out after a stint in a Kessel spice mine. Their sickly pale skin a reminder that it had been many months, if not many years since they had last seen the sun. Others were bronzed and calloused to the point that their skin looked like leather. Farm hands from agrarian moons that supplied food to the Hutts or Darvonians. 

And then there were the true garbage. The First Order slave handlers had named them the Chaff years ago—the drugged refuse other slavers were trying to pass off as someone else’s problem, hoping that any remaining use could be sold for a handful of credits instead. They were the infirmed, the old, the mentally ill and the impossible to tame. Each was, in essence, capable of working—likely for many years if their personal baggage didn’t get in the way of productivity. They went for a fraction of the going price of the other slaves, so they were always a tempting bargain. But they usually were drugged, some of them had their memories wiped, any useful skills they had attained along the way erased with their previous problems.

The lieutenant would likely accept a handful of the Chaff. They would never see the production floor at Weapons Factory Alpha. First Order leadership had banned the use of Chaff in weapons manufacturing. Those he would purchase out of pocket and try to turn for a profit. It was a deal he had forged under the table with the slavers years before, trafficked to third parties before the higher-ups would ever know. It was the perfect don't ask, don't tell money making venture.

He could usually sell a handful as pleasure slaves to brothels along the Corellian Trade Spine. Others he’d ship off to moisture farms on the floating bits of rock in the Outer Rim that always seemed to need muscle but not necessarily brains. The others he couldn’t flip for more their original asking price would just be expelled into the vacuum of space if they went unpurchased by third parties. It wasn’t a problem, he’d resolved with himself years ago. It was just business 

After the other slaves were processed, their chips programed as First Order property and led toward the dormitories for a summary delousing and initial programming, all that remained were the Chaff. One could always tell the Chaff from the rest of the crowd, the lieutenant thought to himself. They always had that blank, drugged stare. Those not lacking from a paucity of sedative were sometimes drooling like imbeciles. They were slow moving, as though their limbs were swimming through wet duracrete. They were always barefoot and minimally dressed. No sense wasting boots or clothing on the equivalent of excrement that would just as likely be shoved out an airlock. The women were clothed in not much more than thin, grey shifts that almost reached the knees. The men matched them in boxy shapeless shirts and loose, thin pants.

Two of the women appeared to have most of their teeth and weren’t covered in that many sores, the lieutenant noted. He could likely sell them as pleasure slaves. Three more appeared young enough that he could ship to the warlords on Muscoda to serve as cup bearers. After all, how hard is it to learn to pour a glass of wine? 

What to do with the other dozen. Three he made a note to reject out of hand. One appeared so dysmorphic the lieutenant knew was a genetic mutant. The other two appeared to lack the cognition to perform basic functions. He’d let the slavers deal with their final fate. He wasn’t going to lose money on this garbage.

It was the last few he had to make a decision on quickly. His stomach rumbled and he wanted to eat his supper more than anything. 

“You there, what’s your name?” he said pointing to a woman, not much older than a girl in the back. Her hair was matted and her face was disfigured with what looked like an acid burn. “What skills do you have?”

“They call me Tulsi,” the woman looked up and nervously answered, “I was a domestic until my master died.”

“Can you cook?” he asked as she quickly nodded. Turning to his assistant who was keeping notes in a datapad, he added, “Add her to the group headed to Muscoda. I think Lord Zsenga needs scullery maids.”

Turning his attention to the back row, a tall slave caught his eye. The damned thing was drugged to the hilt, its eyes were glassy and unfocused. But the male stood at least eight centimeters taller than its peers, its pants didn’t even reach down to its ankles. It didn’t look all that old and if its broad shoulders were any indication, it was no stranger to hard work. If it hadn’t been Chaff, it would’ve likely been a good fit in mortar production. With a strong back like that, it could heft the materials to make the largest shells without difficulty. But the lieutenant was not going to take that gamble on whatever landed this idiot in a Chaff cull.

But he was curious nonetheless. Pointing at the slave he called, “You, step forward.”

The slave staggered forward. Too many damned sedatives running through its system to make it all that valuable. Had to be hard to control, the lieutenant reminded himself. 

Walking over the confused slave that was trying its best to hide behind a tangled mop of dark hair, the lieutenant wanted a closer look. It may be more problems than it was worth, but if he could offload him somewhere where strength and endurance were a commodity and any potential discipline problems would not come to the fore before he could settle on a sizeable asking price, then it may be a gamble he was willing to flip. Maybe Tatooine. The Hutt collective farms were always looking for mindless drones to manage the vapor collectors.

“Let me see your hands,” the lieutenant commanded. 

The slave tried to turn his palms up for inspection only to be hampered by the cuffs tethered to his waist. The lieutenant grabbed one and inspected it. Calloused with long fingers. He might be able to turn a profit on this one after all.

“What’s your name?” the lieutenant asked.

The slave blinked once slowly, and its brow creased as though it didn’t know the answer. 

“Oh come on, it’s not that hard of a question,” he added. He pointed to the scar that traversed across the slave’s cheek. “Or did you forget it when whatever did that to your face?”

The slave lifted its head and looked the lieutenant. A sense of realization sparked in its eyes and it found the answer to the question.

“Ben,” it said with a bit of uncertainty—as though it was almost sure but didn’t quite trust the answer, “My name is Ben.”


	2. Nhereragwenga

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay. It's what happens when you finally figure out the ending and start creating out of order.

The lieutenant moved closer to the slave until they were nearly touching. Ben could smell the liquor on the soldier-turned-slaver’s breath. Even though the lieutenant was a half a head shorter, he still made Ben uneasy despite the tanker truck of sedatives that were supposed to dull his senses coursing through his blood stream. 

“Where did you work last?” the lieutenant asked as he motioned for his assistant to join him.

Ben tried to feel his way through the drug-induced fog enveloping his mind. He knew he should have answers to simple questions like this. But there was nothing but his name that remained in the void. 

“I don’t know,” was all he could manage to answer as anxiety flooded through him. His mind was a blank slate where years of memories had been. 

“Then what skills do you have?” the lieutenant pressed as he motioned is assistant to join him. 

Ben tried desperately to probe deeper. There had to be something in there he could remember, but the emptiness seemed to stretch on forever. He sensed the lieutenant’s growing irritation, and it frightened him. “I don’t remember,” he answered as he stared at his bare feet, wishing he could still hide in the back of the row.

“Well, what do you know then?” the lieutenant demanded, his anger reaching its zenith.

“Nothing.”

He bit back a wince as the lieutenant grabbed a handful of the dark hair that hung in front of his eyes and pulled his head up. He braced himself for the painful reprimand that was to follow. He couldn’t recall his previous master’s face. They weren’t quite memories—more feelings than anything else— that bubbled to the surface as his fear rose. Disappointment, failure, wrath. Pain the common denominator in the equation. They had all intersected in his life before, and he wanted nothing more than to make himself small before the agony started.

“Look, Ears,” the lieutenant hissed, drawing attention to one of Ben’s more prominent features. He tried not to move as the tiny droplets of spittle hit his face. “I hate Chaff like you. I could’ve made a fortune off your carcass. Big as Wookiee. Likely strong as one too. You know how much the spice mines would pay for a giant jackhammer like you?”

Ben didn’t dare answer and remained silent as the lieutenant released his hair. Stay small, a ghost of his former self flitted in his mind.

“A big strong gundark like yourself would cost a small fortune, but you had to screw things up enough to get a mind wipe,” the man added, disgust filling his voice. “Any skills you had are gone. You’re just a worthless meatsack now that isn’t worth much of anything, and I’m the only thing standing between you and a short walk out an open airlock.”

The lieutenant circled around him, and the other slaves did their best to remain unnoticed. They obviously didn’t want to draw the slaver’s wrath either. “Today’s your lucky day, Ears. I’m going to take a gamble on you and see if you can’t make me a few credits.”

The soldier turned to his assistant and told her, “Reprogram his chip. List work skills as ‘agricultural and manual labor.’”

She probed the left side of Ben’s neck until she found what she was looking for –a chip beneath the surface of the skin. She fiddled with the transducer she held in her hand and placed it against his neck. The transducer gave out a beep before she tucked the device into her pocket.

“So here’s a bit of advice,” the lieutenant added. “I’m going to take a chance on you, Ben I Don’t Remember. You’re going to go to auction, and you’re going to keep your mouth shut and you’re going to make me some money. If anyone asks, you are skilled in mechanical maintenance. You’re familiar with moisture collectors, and you aren’t afraid to get your hands dirty. I don’t want you telling anyone ‘you don’t know’ because I am going to get a return on my investment.”

“Moisture collectors,” Ben murmured to himself. He had no idea what one was, but apparently he was now proficient in working with them. And it was a hell of a better prospect than getting shoved out an airlock.

“Do I make myself clear, Ears?” the slaver asked.

All Ben could do was quietly nod before he turned his attention back toward the ground. 

Small. Stay small.

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding when the lieutenant stepped away from him. He brought his cuffed hands as close to his face as he could and finally scratched the itch on the side of his face. He wasn’t sure how he got the giant scar on his cheek. It, like everything in his life was a mystery. 

His temporary owner was right. He must’ve kriffed up in some big way to have his entire past erased.

o.o.o.o.o

Whatever drug was numbing his mind was slowly fading away. In its wake was a dull headache, a blossoming hangover that turned Ben’s stomach and made every sound in the slave transport all that much louder. He didn’t know how long they had been in hyperspace. He’d dozed off somewhere along the way. His back ached, and he wished he could stretch his legs, but the binders holding his ankles to the bench below hindered any ability to find a more comfortable position. 

Ben looked around the crowded cargo hold. In front of him stretched several rows of denizens, mostly human. A single Zabrak sat just to the right and three rows ahead of him. A woman wouldn’t stop coughing somewhere in the rear of the hold likely spewing a miasma of disease with every explosive cough. He silently hoped he wouldn’t catch what she had.

His mouth was bone dry and his empty stomach growled in protest. He had no idea when he’d eaten last, but it felt like a lifetime ago. Now that the sedatives where wearing off, he once again tried to piece together his past, but the more he looked, the more frustrated he became. That place in his head where his memories had been was as empty as the pit of his stomach, each crying to be filled in their own way.

Ben’s body lurched forward as he caught himself and his ears popped. The ship must have dropped out of hyperspace. The sensation was oddly familiar. He swallowed against a dry mouth in the hopes that his ears would equilibrate. 

The ship began its descent. Where they were in space was anyone’s guest. The cargo hold had no windows. In the back of the hold, a woman’s voice started to wail. Guards in the rear barked their orders to shut up, but the voice only increased in volume, the ravings barely making sense. She didn’t belong here. She needed to get out. 

A screech of a blaster bolt echoed against the wall and with a blinding flash of light, the wailing fell silent. Ben flinched, and the hold smelled like ozone. He tried to remember the face that went with the cries, but he could barely remember the faces of those seated in his own row. Not wanting to draw any attention to himself, he hunched over more and remained silent for the duration of the descent. Closing his eyes, he imagined he was invisible as if he were a child again and that false magic still rang true. But he had no memories of playing as a child, nor did he of the small magic that didn’t work anyhow. 

Wherever they had landed it was hot. Oppressively hot. The hold filled with a suffocating heat the moment the gangplank dropped. The sunlight was blinding as it streamed in the opening. With an automated click, the ankle binders released from Ben’s legs and those in his row. 

“Everyone up!” a voice yelled from the opening of the hold. “We’re exiting by rows starting with the stern.”

Ben and the others rose in unison. He stretched his shoulders back and rolled his neck while he waited for his row’s turn. He ducked his head as he exited the star craft and couldn’t help but squint into the blinding midday light. Twin suns burned white hot in the cloudless sky, and the hot dessert breeze kicked up unseen bits of grit that stung at his skin with invisible bites.

The duracrete tarmac reflected the suns’ dual heat and was nearly unbearable beneath his bare feet. “Move it, people,” a slaver yelled. Ben followed the slave in front of him, intently staring at the back of the woman’s head. Two other ships were also unloading their denizen cargo.

The slaves streamed single file into a waiting building. As they descended into the shaded cover inside, they were quickly separated into various holding pens. The obvious elderly and infirmed were herded to a pen in the back of the hall, the women and small children to another. An adolescent Twi’lek boy protested as he was separated from his mother and likely sister. 

The undersized and adolescent males were herded to a pen while Ben was shoved toward the other pen with the adult males. Most were human, but he could make out the Zabrak that was on his transport, a handful of Twi’lek, and maybe a Rhodian. The stench of unwashed bodies was overpowering. Sweat began trickle into the small of his back, and Ben was pretty sure he stunk as bad the other bodies festering in the scorching heat. His hair didn’t feel that greasy, so he must’ve bathed in the recent past.

Within minutes the slaves were sorted and potential buyers were allowed to walk the floor and survey the day’s offerings. Each was in search of something whether it was domestic staff, machinists, cooks, or farm hands. They scrutinized the slaves, sometimes conferring with a datapad. 

And when it came time to bid on the merchandise, there was a certain madness to the slavers’ methods. Less desirables weren’t sold in lots unto themselves. They were sprinkled in with the young and the healthy. Some lots had more and their final bids tended to be less. Those with heathy adults and adolescents were going for as high as fifty thousand credits.

Ben watched the auction with a guarded curiosity as the sales continued. The slaves were paraded around the ring like domesticated nerf so that the bidders could get a better look. The bidding cycles flew by, the prices set by a flurry of raised hands consenting to an ever-inflating price.

Soon it was time for him to be sorted and sold as well. A slaver grabbed his cuffs and pulled him toward the ring where he joined a human woman that looked about the same age has him. Her hair was so blonde it was nearly white. A large tattoo crept from the top of her left shoulder to her neck until it dipped behind her ear and vanished into the shock of platinum hair. Joining her was a Zabrak male and a human male with a shaved head who was as nearly tall as Ben but was broader and more muscle bound than he was. His fists looked like they were big enough that he could crush a Stormtrooper helmet without thinking twice about it.

“Now bidding on Lot Five,” the auctioneer announced from the center of the ring. “In this offering we four items up for bid perfect for your personal or collective farming needs. The Zabrak is fluent in nine languages including Huttese. Purchase includes the installation of sterilization implants. Data chips on all are current. Opening bid starts at fifteen thousand credits.”

A man with grey hair raised his hand at the opening bid, but as soon as the auctioneer asked for twenty thousand credits, another bidder chimed in and the price hiked up. One of the slavers grabbed the Ben’s wrist binders and marched him through the circumference of the stage so that prospective buyers could get a better look.

“I have twenty thousand credits,” the auctioneer barked. “Do I get a twenty-five…”

“Thirty,” a man built like a gundark interrupted from the back of the room.

“Thirty thousand,” the auctioneer added. “Can I get a thirty-five”

A green skinned Twi’lek, likely from a Hutt collective, raised her hand to bid. Her lekku swayed slowly she shifted in her seat.

A hush fell over the hall. No further bidders tried to escalate the price. “Bid stands at thirty-five,” the  
auctioned pointed out. “Can I get forty? Three humans and a Zabrak. That’s a great price for four healthy sentients.”

No hands shot up. The crowd stilled as it usually did as a lot reached is maximum price.

“Thirty-five once,” he announced. A buyer rose from his seat and headed toward the aisle.

“Thirty-five twice,” he added. The room remained silent. Ben couldn’t help but stare at the Twi’lek as it became clearer that he’d likely be sold to her. 

“Sold to Jundland Hutt Collective for thirty-five thousand credits,” the auctioneer announced. A buzzer went off as it had at the end of each auction offering. Only this time Ben heard it and jumped with a start. All that remained was the transfer of documents, and someone else owned the deed to Ben’s life. 

“Let’s go, you chizgibbons,” the slaver said using his prod to guide them toward the far side of the ring. He led the four slaves toward the processing room. The Twi’lek was waiting for them. 

“Zabrak,” she said, “What languages do you speak?”

“Other than Basic?” he asked. For a slave, the Zabrak carried himself with a nearly haughty manner. His self-assuredness was clearly not deterred by the stuncuffs around his wrists. “I am fluent in Zabraki, Huttese, Twi’leki, Muscodia, Rhodian, Xanzabesh, Torgrutan, and Mandor’a. In addition, I have a conversational understanding of Shryiiwook and Boscobea.”

The Twi’lek smiled. “Good,” she answered. “Her Excellency’s looking for a new interpreter for her court.”

The Zabrak nodded his head and smiled. “I live to serve,” he answered with a smarmy smile.

A rough hand shoved Ben toward a waiting stool and drew him from his eavesdropping. “Pay attention,” the handler said. Her hair was nearly shaved down to the scalp, and the whites of her eyes were tattooed an eerie cobalt blue. “Now sit.”

Ben wasn’t going to argue with her. Quietly he took a seat. Grabbing a sensor, the handler pressed it over the chip in Ben’s neck and barked the readout to the Twi’lek.

“Male human, number 6083368727,” she called out. “Age, thirty years. Intelligence, above average.  
Languages spoken, Basic. Temperament, defiant—full memory wipe, amenable to reconditioning.”

Turning her attention to the Twi’lek who hadn’t been paying attention, “Eisha,” she yelled and the Twi’lek turned her head as she held the chip reader up, “Hope Xheera doesn’t mind this gift with purchase. You may have found a translator, but check out this one. Full memory wipe. You’ve got a live one here!”

Eisha let out a disgusted grunt and stalked over to where Ben was seated on the stool. “I hate it when these kriffing slavers hide garbage in the middle of a lot,” she sighed. “Had I known, I would’ve bid on the Bothans.”

She bent over until they were eye level. Ben could see her lekku twitching out of the corner of his eye as if it were a pit viper biding its time before striking. There was a scar that bisected her left eyebrow. “Look, Wipe,” she said. There was no mistaking the displeasure that seeped out with her voice. “I’m not looking for any trouble, okay? I came here for an interpreter, not some behavioral nightmare that had to have a system wipe. You’re lucky Her Excellency doesn’t like throwing credits away and will actually keep you, because I have no reservations tossing chiz like your kind to the Sarlaac.”

Ben had no clue what a Sarlaac was, and quite frankly didn’t want to find out. It likely had to do with a painful death. Eisha’s steely gaze was intense, too much to take in. He didn’t doubt for a moment she would follow through with her threat. 

She leaned in for emphasis, “So I don’t want any problems from you, alright?”

Ben stared back at her. The Twi’lek’s eyes where a fiery gold. How fitting for her own temperament. He blinked once before looking away. He acknowledged his submission by nodding and echoing, “No problems.”

The slave handler pushed between them, a thin trochar in hand. “Now that you two lovebirds have sorted things out, I need to finish my job here.”

Without any explanation she circled around to Ben’s back. Grasping his left bicep, she pierced the back of his arm with the device. He gritted his teeth in response to the jab and startled a bit in his seat. But her firm grip kept him anchored to the stool. He could feel the device run parallel to the surface of his skin, traversing a few centimeters before coming to a stop. She pressed the plunger and he felt his arm burn as something exited the trochar and into his skin before she withdrew the device. 

“All done,” the slave handler announced. “Ownership’s updated on the chip and he can’t breed now. The Wipe’s all yours.”

o.o.o.o.o.

It took nearly two hours to traverse the desert sea. The other three slaves purchased in his lot sat silently. None were willing to engage the other. The brickhouse of a man that towered over Ben dozed in his seat while the tattooed woman did her best to ignore everyone. Meanwhile the Zabrak quietly chatted with Eisha—was that her name again—in the fore of the cabin.

At least it was cooler inside the shuttle than outside. Sand stretched as far as the eye could see in all directions underneath the a cloudless, brilliant sapphire sky. Rocky cliffs jutted above the sandy expanse on the horizon. The terrain was a barren wasteland, something that shouldn’t support life. The shuttle whisked past the cannibalized remnants of an X-wing, its exterior bleached so white that it resembled a prehistoric skeleton after decades of basking in the twin suns’ scorching light.

Ben was exhausted. He had that breakbone ache that had settled into his limbs. Looking down at his hands, he noticed a ragged hangnail on his thumb and absently picked at it with the neighboring index finger. Hopefully whoever this Xheera was had shoes. There was no way he was going to survive the burning sand without something on his feet. They hurt too, now that he thought about it. 

The shuttle came to a stop, and Ben peered out the window. A dwelling that was big enough to be a palace, a fortress or both blended in with the rock formations that stabbed forth from the sand. Intimidating turrets punctuated perimeter of the structure. Three corpses in various stages of decay hung chained from poles in the ground. Ben couldn’t even tell what species they were other than that they were once humanoid. The fourth pole held limp body. But that one wasn’t quite dead yet. It twitched every so often under the unrelenting glare of the afternoon sun. 

This wasn’t a desert planet, Ben mused to himself. This was hell.

Eisha murmured to the Zabrak and they both rose to their feet. She gathered her pack and slung it over her shoulder. Turning around, she said, “This is your stop, too. Come on.”  
Ben started to pull himself to a stand to follow her out. No problems, he reminded himself. But before he could rise, a hand on his shoulder pressed him back into his seat.

The Twi’lek glared for a moment and locked gazes with him. “Not you, Wipe,” she said with a sneer then gestured to the giant man in front of him. “You’re headed for the Pits. I meant him. He’s actually useful in the palace.”

The other slave obediently stood up and, with his handler, followed them out of the shuttle as the hatch closed and the shuttle accelerated once more.

“My name’s not Wipe,” Ben quietly said to no one, his voice not much more than a whisper. His brow knitted into a frown. He was sick of all the names he’d been called that weren’t his—pejoratives that reminded him that he had ceased to be human somewhere along the line. He was a slave, a possession to be used and nothing more. No family, no memories and no possessions other than his name. And that was something he was going to cling to tightly. It was the only thing that he owned, and it was the one thing no one could take from him. “It’s Ben.”

The other slave leaned over until she was closer to the aisle. She appeared to be about the same age as him, perhaps a little younger. She’d obviously heard his musings. With a smile she introduced herself, “Hi, Ben. I’m Edil.”

He didn’t know what to do. His words weren’t intended for her, but her small gesture of kindness was a comforting balm that soothed over him. Shyly, he smiled his thanks in return.

The last hour of the journey went by with relative ease. The suns were a little lower in the sky by the time they arrived at their final destination. The Pits were a perfect description for it. A bustling slave colony in the middle of the desert, it dipped into the giant maw of a crater where the base of it served as a large courtyard. The perimeter was marked by three domed buildings. The landscape was dotted with moisture collectors that stood sentry and fanned out in grids marked by the kilometer. 

Two other shuttles were already parked near the smallest of the domes. They weren’t the only slaves joining the Pits. Between the other two transport, about a dozen other humans exited the crafts and headed toward the dome.

“Sand people took out some work crew about two weeks ago,” the handler behind Ben remarked. “Surprised we were able to recover our losses so quickly. Figured it’d take a couple of months or so. The other auctions must’ve been better than yours. Pretty lucky, don’t you think?”

Ben didn’t know if the man was talking to him or not, but it felt strange ignoring someone who had a stun staff and a blaster strapped to his side. So he replied, “Sure, I guess.” 

The shuttle parked next to the other two and the hatch opened. More of that oppressive heat flooded the cabin. The handler walked over to Ben and grabbed his wrists. He held a digital key in his hands and deactivated the stuncuffs clamped to Ben’s wrists. They opened with a click, and the handler removed them and the accompanying tether that circled Ben’s waist. 

Ben absently rubbed his wrists, wishing the chafe away as the handler turned his attention to Edil and freed her from her restraints as well. “Out you go,” the handler said to the slaves, herding them out of the shuttle and toward the turbolift in Dome Two. 

The lift was crowded with other denizens as new to the slave colony as he was. The short journey three stories below ground was stuffy and reeked of stale body odor and dirt. His hands finally free, Ben raked his tangled hair away from his face. As the door opened to the base of the crater, an entire new world emerged. He stepped into the courtyard to find a cacophony of activity.

A moisture collector punctuated the center of the courtyard and was surrounded by several duracrete tables and benches. The walls of the crater opened to reveal open air chambers, common rooms filled with slaves all dressed in earthen hues of homespun practicality to remain as cool as possible in the desert heat yet provide maximum protection from the unforgiving suns. A large mess hall with rows of tables and benches seemed to be one of the focal points of the complex. The balconies one level above likely led to the dormitories. 

“Gather around, people,” a man standing atop one of the tables in the courtyard called. He was tall and lean. His face was tanned and leathery. In his hand was a staff, likely one equipped to deliver a charge just like the handlers had at the auction. 

“Welcome to the Pits,” he announced, his voice echoing off the wall of the crater. “My name is Zev Patel. I am a freeman, and the closest thing that you will likely ever see to your new master. I am one of Her Excellency’s foremen, and you will be answering to me. 

“This is the largest moisture farm of the Hutt Collective, and you are now the children of Xheera the Hutt, the Bitchqueen of the Jundland Wastes and the Great Dune Sea Beyond,” Patel continued with a rehearsed grace as if he had given this speech many times over. Chances are, he likely had. “She may not have birthed you, but she will hold the deed to your life until your last dying breath. She is your mother now.”

Patel hopped down from the table and surveyed the dozen new slaves and he strode through the courtyard. “Make no mistake,” he added, “the work here is hard, and the days are long. But hard work is rewarded. As long as the water continues to flow, you will not go hungry. You will have a roof over your head and clothes on your back. Failure to work hard is not an option, and the consequences are swift and unforgiving.”

The foreman walked over to Ben and looked him up and down once. His lack of shoes did not go unnoticed. “Go find the matron named Tu’usi once you get settled in,” Patel said quietly to Ben, “and she’ll find some boots for you.”

Turning his attention back to the crowd, Patel continued, “Tomorrow you will be assigned your daily tasks. Training will begin at Oh-Five-Hundred. For those who will be assigned to the collection fields, be aware that we’ve lost two work crews recently to sand people attacks. Her Excellency as well as her cousin His Grace Poonja the Hutt have sent out strike teams to thin their numbers, but in the meanwhile, we’re in the process of installing more hardbox shelters. They will be your lifeline in the fields. A bantha can’t crush them, and gaffi stick can’t puncture them. They’re also your shelter if you forget to keep an eye on the horizon and get caught in a sandstorm.

“Curfew is one hour past sunset. That’s when the shields go up for the night,” Zev added as he rounded back toward the lift. “Anyone caught outside the shields after curfew will be considered a runaway, and the punishment will be severe. Finally, we’ve taken the liberty to have you each of you implanted with a contraception device. Do not remove it. Breeding is strictly prohibited in the Pits. It just keeps things simpler around here. Less mouths to unnecessarily feed, and it keeps the First Order baby hunters out of our hair. We’re in the water business, not a Stormtrooper farm.”

The door to the lift opened, and Patel used his hand to keep it from closing. “That should wrap things up. The matrons will be out in a moment to get you settled in.” Before boarding the lift, he added, “And remember people, water is life.”

The door to the lift closed, and the courtyard filled with matrons, each caring a steel bottle filled with water for each of the new slaves, a gift of hospitality and welcome. Each were greeted with the same—a warm smile, a cold drink of water and the salutation, “Water is life.”

“Water is life, my son,” an older woman said to Ben. Her skin was the color of caffa and milk, and her grey hair was cropped short to her scalp. She was dressed in long skirts that were the muted colors of the rock and sand that stretched in all directions. 

She handed him a water bottle, condensation was beading on its surface. It was cool to the touch and such an inviting contrast to the arid world around him. Ben nodded his thanks and unscrewed the lid. Bringing the bottle to his lips, he quickly took several large gulps until the coldness of the water caused a brain freeze headache to blossom between his eyes. “Thank you,” he said as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 

He tried to return to bottle to the woman, and she shook her head. “You are now part of this family. The bottle is yours, and there is more water where that came from, so drink up.”

Ben smiled and took another long drink from the bottle then replaced the cap, still amazed at the act of kindness that came in the form of a weathered old woman that only came up to the middle of his chest. Her face was lined from decades in the sun and her knobby fingers gnarled from even more years of even more of likely backbreaking work. 

“What do they call you?” she asked, a gentle hand to the small of his back steered him toward the welcomed shade of the mess hall.

“Just Ben,” he answered wistfully. “Don’t remember the rest.”

The woman gestured to a table just inside the lip of the hall. The cool floor felt good against the aching soles of his feet. Ben sat at one of the benches while she took her place on the opposite of the long table. During peak mealtime, it could easily fit ten people, but they were the only ones seated at it. Evening meal was winding down, and the few slaves remaining were finishing up their dinner or cleaning up. An older man mopped the floor while a young girl wiped down the other tables.

“They wiped your memories?” she asked as if she already knew the answer. Ben just nodded in reply. “I should’ve known by the way you were dressed. Don’t worry, we should be able to find some clothes long enough to fit someone as tall as you.”

“The foreman told me to find someone named Tu’usi,” he said. He could feel his face and ears flush from embarrassment. Shifting his gaze to the scratched metal table, his voice grew softer. “I need shoes.”

“Luck should have it, you’ve already found me,” she said. “I am Amma Tu’usi, and yes, I will find you some boots.”

Amma. The name plucked something from the recesses of his mind. It wasn’t a name. It was a title. He’d heard it many times before, that he was certain.

It meant mother on another world. Which one, he had not a clue. But it didn’t just mean that, it was something one affectionately called one’s own mother as a term of endearment, and just hearing the word made him ache. Had he called his own mother Amma at one point in his life? Ben closed his eyes and tried to picture his own mother, but couldn’t remember a single thing about her. He tried to recall her face, her scent, but nothing emerged from the empty void where memories were supposed to be hidden. Had she loved him? Did he have brothers or sisters? Was she a slave just like him?

There was nothing left but a blank slate, and suddenly the stark reality of that became overwhelming.

He felt Tu’usi take his hand in hers, drawing him from his thoughts. He opened his eyes to find her gently looking back “Mind wipes hurt, Ben. They’re a wound no one can see, and one that rarely heals,” she softly said as though she could read his thoughts. “So few answers yet so very many questions. Memories, both good and bad, are one of the few things we can truly call our own. They’re private, and no one should, no matter what they have done in their lives, have them stolen.”

His larynx bobbed as he swallowed once and his eyes began to prickle and burn. Ben didn’t dare say anything, or his frayed emotions would likely unravel into a mess on the table. Instead, all he could managed to do was nod and silently agree with her.

They sat across from each other for several moments, the comforting silence and companionship was a welcomed respite. 

“When was the last time you ate?” Tu’usi asked. Again she had this inexplicable ability to read him like a book.

Despite the gnawing emptiness that seemed to fill his stomach, the question still managed to bring a wistful smile to his face. “Another thing I don’t remember,” he answered.

“Well let me ask you another way,” she countered. “Are you hungry, Ben?”

“Yes,” he answered, trying his best not to sound desperate. “Very.”

As they sat there, the little girl whom had been cleaning tables walked up to Tu’usi and set her rag on the table. Immediately the old woman drew her into a tight embrace. “I’m done,” she announced with a smile that lacked her two top teeth.

“Good girl,” Tu’usi replied placing a kiss on the top of the girl’s head. “Yael, this Ben. He’s had a long day and has not eaten in a while. Could you be a dear and go get your new brother some supper before the cooks put it all away for the night?” 

The little girl answered, “Sure,” before ducking into the kitchen. A few minutes later she returned carrying a metal tray. On it was a small pot of something grey, a streaming mug of tea and plate with a small green packet it.

She set it down in front of Ben and explained, “We didn’t meet quota last month for the harvest, so we don’t get any real food this month.”

“Yael,” Tu’usi admonished, “this is real food. It may not be your favorite, but it still nourishes you.”

“It’s disgusting,” Yael added in a stage whispier as she twisted her face into a look of disgust.

Ben picked up the small pot of slime. It gave off no odor, even when he brought it to his nose and sniffed it. “It looks like protein paste,” he explained like someone who had lived on synthetic rations for years. Using his spoon, he scooped out a small amount and tentatively tasted it. While it had little to no flavor, it wasn’t overly offensive. But it was the texture—something between mucus and putty—was a little too much to handle. He gagged once before setting it back on to his tray. “It’s really not all that bad,” he lied.

As much as he wanted to fill his stomach, he wasn’t sure he would be able to eat the paste without vomiting. Yet he knew it would be rude to not accept this hospitality, and at that point, he was hungry enough to eat just about anything. So he took another bite and choked more of the paste down.

Amma Tussi stood up and smoothed the rumples from her skirt. “You finish eating,” she instructed him. “I’m going to go see about locating you some boots.”

Once Tu’usi had left the hall, Yael sat down across from Ben. “It’s okay, I think it’s gross too,” she said as she set her elbows on the table and stared him down. “It’s better if you dip the bread in it. It goes down easier this way.”

Ben took a sip of the tea to wash the slime out of his mouth. It tasted like mint and was just a little bit sweet. “That’s great, kid, but I don’t have any bread,” he pointed out. Picking up the shrink-wrapped green blob, he held it up to show her. “I have this, whatever this is”

Yael giggled with a toothless grin. She was a cute little thing. Her hair was a shade or two lighter than his and pulled back into twin braids, and she had a dusting of freckles across her nose like someone he had met before but couldn’t quite recall. “No, silly,” she laughed, “that is your bread. Haven’t you had polystarch before?”

She grabbed his water bottle from the table and gave it a little shake to see if it was empty or not. After she heard the water slosh within the bottle, she removed the cap and poured a tiny amount into the dish the polystarch packet had been sitting in. Once she was done with water, she held out her hand. “The packet, please,” Yael requested.

Ben handed it over to her. First she tried to tear it open with her fingers. When that didn’t work, she tried to rip it open with her teeth.

“Do you want me to open it for you,” he asked, amused at the little girl’s frustration and struggle.

“No,” she grunted with determination as she tried once again to tear it open. “I’ve got it.”

Finally, she managed to tear into the plastifilm wrapper. Once the opening was big enough, she poured the green powder into the waiting water. Using the tip of a finger, she quickly stirred the contents and mixed the powder and water together. Almost instantly, the mixture started to bubble and rise, and within seconds the newly generated dough began to fill out. The crust began to crack and the chemical reaction finished leaving a round loaf of mossy green bread as a result. 

Yael picked up the loaf and tore off a hunk. She offered it to Ben, “See, polystarch bread. Try it.”

Ben accepted the proffered piece of bread and popped it into his mouth. It wasn’t great, but it wasn’t horrible either. It certainly had the texture of real bread, but it had a somewhat cardboard aftertaste. 

“I know,” she sighed. “It’s not that great either. But you can use it to scoop up the protein paste, and it sure makes eating it easier. If you eat it all, you won’t be hungry anymore.” 

He took Yael's advice and scooped up the paste with chunks of bread. She was right, it made it more palatable. More importantly, it filled his stomach. As the hunger faded away, Ben felt like he could think a little more clearly. As he took the last few swallows of his tea, the girl dug into the pocket of her tunic and pulled out a small white cloth. She unfolded it to reveal dried strips the color of amber. 

“It’s better when it’s fresh,” she said offering him a strip. “But try this. It makes the goo flavor go away.”

Ben studied it before asking, “What is it?”

“Black melon,” she said. “It’s really sweet.”

He bit off a piece. It had the texture of leather. He chewed it a bit, and it slowly began to soften in his mouth. The girl was right, it was very sweet and something worth hiding. In a day where lives were traded for fistfuls of credits, the most invaluable treasure was kindness wrapped up in a piece of dried fruit. 

“It looks like you have found a true friend,” Amma Tu’usi remarked as she walked up to the table. “Yael’s not one to share her black melon with just anyone.”

Without saying a word, Yael picked up the empty tray and carried it back to the kitchen as if she knew that Tu’usi wanted to have a private conversation. The old woman held out a hand to Ben and gestured for him to follow her. “Walk with me,” she said with a smile.

Ben rose from his seat and followed her to the courtyard. She wrapped her hand around the crook of his arm and walked beside him with a sense of ease as if they had done this a thousand times. “You’ll find three sets of clothes waiting for you on your bed in the dormitory. You’ll always have one to wear, one to wash and one to mend. Socks should be there, and a pair of boots, too,” she said. “I also left you with some salve for your feet. If they haven’t blistered yet, they will, and the ointment should help with that.”

“Thank you,” he replied. 

The suns were beginning to set. The brilliance of the day was replaced by the muted slate colored blues of dusk. A single star shone in the sky while it waited for its brothers and sisters to join it.

"Why did you call me that girl's brother?" Ben asked. “I don’t even know her.”

Amma Tu’usi smiled in an all-knowing way, a quiet strength as if she knew all of the secrets of the universe. “Because you are both Nhereragwenga,” she said matter-of-factly. “It is who we are. It is our name. We are desert orphans, our parents known only to the Maker. She is Yael Nehereragwenga just as you are now Ben Nhereragwenga. You are no different than others here who arrived with nothing more than their name and the shirt on their backs” 

A shooting star streaked across the twilight sky. Laughter filtered down from the dormitories above as the lights in the courtyard flickered on.

“There are things in life we have no control over,” she mused. “No one ever set out to be the property of another. Yet we do still have so many decisions as we go about life. You may not have chosen to come to this unforgiving rock of a planet, but you have the choice how you live your life moving forward.

“Being Nhereragwenga isn’t about being alone. On the contrary, my son, being Nhereragwenga is about the family you find along the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Black Melon: it's really a thing on Tatooine that apparently grows in the Jundland Wastes. It isn't called black melon because the fruit's flesh is black, rather it is called that because it has huge spines on its skin and needs to be torched to the point of charing to burn off the spines
> 
> Nhereragwenga: literally two words Nherera Gwenga. I'm not an expert in this by any stretch of the imagination, but it is a rough translation from Shona that is "desert orphan."


	3. Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long hiatus. Back in the swing of things. Was going to originally make this a larger chapter. Instead I decided to divide it in two. Hope you all enjoy!

Nights like this made Rey regret she didn’t opt to sleep in the Falcon. The stone hut did little to trap in the heat, especially when torrential thunderstorms like the one that had buffeted the island all night and blew through the rocky archipelago.

The wind whistled through the gaps in the stone and the thunder rattled of the jagged slopes of Ahch-To. Of course she could add another peat log to the fire to warm the hut, but that would mean getting out of the warm confines of her bed, and that would only make her colder. How Master Luke had lived there for years and not frozen to death was beyond her. Maybe the Force kept him warm in his hut a little further up the slope.

She still had so much to learn about the Force.

But she was doing a better job listening for it. The Force didn’t have a voice, but she was finally recognizing when it called to her just as it had in the lower level of Maz’s ancient castle. The Force, she was learning, would call when she least expected it, a quiet, irresistible song with no notes that only she could hear. Or was that something she felt? She still was not quite sure, but Rey knew it was something she needed to answer when it called. After all, that was the first lesson her new master had imparted to her: listen.

Lightning flashed outside, casting long, eerie shadows across the hut in the few milliseconds it danced in the sky. Thunder rumbled in response. The sun would be up a few hours. Hopefully the storm will have passed by then and the island would once again warm to a more reasonable temperature.

Rey still had desert blood coursing through her veins. Ahch-To never felt warm enough, even for the middle of summer. Its sun was hardly the scorching blast furnace of Jakku’s, and she should never chase the cold from her bones. Ahch-To was also perpetually damp, its aching chill not quite ever fully evaporating.

Maybe a little more peat in the fire would keep her from shivering, Rey thought to herself as she reluctantly pulled herself out of bed. This wasn’t Jakku, and Master Luke wasn’t Unkar Plutt. She was free to use her nightly portion of peat fully. She didn’t have to squirrel some away because the rules constantly changed and there may not be fuel later in the week. But old habits were hard to break, and a little niggling voice in the back of the head admonished her for wanting to waste all of her resources.

The stone floor was cold, and her skin erupted in goosebumps as she crossed the hut to retrieve the last block of peat from the bucket resting silently next to the fireplace. She added it to the glowing embers, and within seconds, blue flames emerged at the block’s base and licked at the peat until it was engulfed in fire. Rey stood by the hearth for a few moments and warmed in its welcoming glow.

A brilliant bolt of lightning cracked outside as thunder boomed simultaneously. The hut shuddered and the stormed grew in intensity. Rey jumped with a start and bumped into the tiny table to the side of the hearth, knocking her lightsaber from the tabletop where she had left it before she had gone to bed hours before. It was the saber had called to her at Maz’s, the one Kylo Ren had risked his life to claim, the same one that Luke Skywalker had refused to accept. It was hers now, and in the darkness it called to her again.

Rey crouched beside the table to pick it up, its hilt cool against her palm. As she rose to a stand, the thunder and lightning faded away. The furniture in the hut vanished and the room transformed into a bedroom. A child’s bed sat in the corner, and soft carpeting emerged from beneath Rey’s feet.

_Let me in,_ an oily voice whispered from the shadows. _It’s our secret._

A little boy let out a cry and sat up in bed. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and Rey could feel the boy’s heart race within his chest. He struggled to disentangle himself from the blankets and scrambled out of bed and down the hall desperate to wake his amma and da.

As she followed him down the hall, the carpet yielded to a tarmac in a jungle. A temple sat quietly in the distance. The little boy was a bit older now. Chubby toddler limbs had yielded to long arms and legs. Tears streaked both of his cheeks. His painful confusion and consuming fear crashed through Rey as though they were her own emotions.

“ _Why do I have to stay here?”_ he pleaded, looking up at someone taller than him. “ _I want to go home. I’m sorry, Amma. I’ll be better. I promise.”_

Rey blinked once, and her surroundings grew dark. Instead of standing outside, she found herself in a crowded shuttle. Her ears popped and stomach dropped as she felt the spacecraft jump into hyperspace. She grabbed on to a handhold on the low ceiling to keep herself from stumbling backwards.

That sullen boy was now a young adult seated on one of the benches that ran the length of the bulkhead trying his best to suppress the urge to start shaking. He was surrounded by warriors dressed in black, each masked to hide his or her identity. His dark hair was shorter now, cropped short and revealing ears that stuck out at the sides. His hands and robes that easily identified him as a padawan were bloody.

“ _What have I done?”_ he asked no one.

Without warning, he leaned forward, gagged once and vomited between his feet. Rey could sense his need to cry and the struggle to keep his swirling emotions in check. One of the warriors handed him a small knife and gestured to the side of his head. He accepted the proffered weapon and sawed at the thin braid that started behind his ear and trailed well past his shoulder. He didn’t say a word as he let the braid fall into the puddle of vomit.

Rey took a step back only to feel binders wrap around her ankles and forearms. She recognized the room. She’d been there before. It was the interrogation room on board Starkiller Base, and she was once again strapped to the table.

The boy was now a fully grown man. His hair nearly reached his shoulders now. She recognized him now. His pale face was dusted in a constellation of moles and the insecurity she had felt when she had eavesdropped on his greatest fears still remained hidden in plain sight behind his eyes. It was her captor Kylo Ren. He leaned forward to probe her mind.

“ _Don’t worry,”_ he said to her. “ _I feel it too_.”

She gritted her teeth and closed her eyes and waited for the agony that accompanied his search of her memories. But the pain never came. Rey opened her eyes and the snow-covered ground shuddered and split. She needed to run before she was swallowed into the chasm. Looking one last time across the gorge she saw him. Kylo was nothing more than a crumpled heap in the snow. And so she ran, just like she had done before. Finn was in the distance she had to get to him. She gripped the light saber tightly in her hand and started running.

Rey ran until she entered a darkened room. There was no mistaking the overly sanitized scent of a medcenter. The only illumination in the room came from a cylindrical column filled with a pink fluid. She’d never seen a bacta tank before but recognized it from a holovid she’d once watched years ago. A med droid stood sentry beside it as it entered settings into the device while it attended the patient inside the cylinder.

Kylo Ren filled the column. Scars both new and old marred his body. The puckered wound on his left flank still looked angry and fresh. His inky black hair floated weightlessly around his face. Curious, she took a few steps closer to get a better look. Beneath the breathing apparatus strapped to his head she saw it—the grizzly gash she had given him when she had lashed out in anger. It carved the side of his face in two.

She felt this unexplainable urge to approach the tank. Unlike the other images, Rey felt like she was not just a bystander this time, but rather an active participant. Everything felt sharper and more in focus than before. She wasn’t sure if was the past, the future or both. Either way, the walls that separated her from these realities had evaporated and she was very much a part of this present.

Reaching out, she placed her palm against the cylinder. It was oddly warm to the touch. As she did so, Kylo opened his eyes and she felt the fleeting sense of recognition dance across his senses. There wasn’t the anger he had carried with him everywhere he went. Rather, she detected a momentary sense of comfort as though he had been calmed by her presence beside him.

He started to reach toward her, but his body tensed and Rey could feel the unnatural pain rip through him. Kylo struggled in the fluid as though he was trying to claw his way out. The more he struggled, the more Rey could feel his desperation and fear. It was suffocating and all-consuming, and Rey felt every part of.  She couldn’t breathe and felt like the world around her was constricting and crushing her. She wanted nothing more than to take this feeling away, for him, for herself. She felt helpless as his panic became her panic, and she jumped with a start as his foot struck the curved wall of the tank.

Rey fell backwards, and the lightsaber skittered across the stone floor of her hut. The thunder rumbled and the wind whipped against roof. The only light was that from the fire in the hearth. She drew a shaky breath and tried to will her racing heart to slow down. She closed her eyes and tried to center herself. Rey picked herself up off the floor and walked over to where the lightsaber had landed, she heard his voice one last time.

_“Ben.”_ he said. _“My name is Ben.”_

o.o.o.o.o.

Ben woke with a small gasp. Whatever he’d been dreaming about quickly vanished into the shadows of his mind. He tried to hang on to the last whisper of his dream, convinced it had been an echo from his past, but all he could recall was the day he was shipped to Tatooine and how the slaver had demanded his name. 

It had been a little more than two months since he had arrived at the Pits, and he was already falling into the colony’s never ending routine. Up with the sun, work until it dipped below the opposite horizon, that had become his life and the predictable regularity of it all had become a comfort. One water shower per week. The rest were sonics. He’d even finally figured out how to use the dry shampoo—a powdered concoction that the matrons made that kept his hair from getting too greasy the rest of the week. 

He’d sunburned and peeled several times over since he had arrived. At least he didn’t blister any more. Somewhere along the line, it had just become easier to forego shaving, and several weeks in, he had finally conceded that he couldn’t grow a full beard even if he tried. So he’d settled for the scruff on his chin and the accompanying mustache. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever grown a beard before, but then again he stopped caring as well. 

Ben was typically one of the first who rose in his dormitory. This morning was no exception. It was a great room with twenty-four bunks all in neat rows low to the ground. It was still dark out, and the room was still cool like everything else in the desert before the sun rose for the day. Ceiling fans quietly marked time with a gentle tick-tick-tick as their blades cycled round and around.  A few of his bunkmates began to stir as well. Without looking he knew it was Emos who worked in the garages and Mwvano, an elderly woman with skin as leathery as a gundark and hair as white as bone who kept the laundry in constant motion. 

He sat on the edge of his bunk for a few moments as he wiped the sleep from his eyes and raked a hand through his tangle of hair. It the far corner, a couple did their best to pretend they were not having sex, but their breathy sighs gave them away. Ben ignored him like he always did as he finally rose and headed to the fresher. If they didn’t care that he was dressed in only his undershorts, then he didn’t care that they not-so-discretely found a little comfort with each other in the moments before dawn. There was no such thing as privacy in the dormitories. Everyone had their own routine. 

The overhead lights in the fresher were sterile and harsh. Standing in front of one of the urinals, he emptied his bladder. His piss was dark. In his head Ben could hear Amma Tu’usi admonishing him like she always did for not drinking enough water. He’d do better today, he promised himself like he did every morning. Heading over to the sink he lathered up his hands with soap from the dispenser. He quickly scrubbed his face and armpits before rinsing them from water from the tap. It was still three days until it was his shower night. He never felt as clean after a sonic, and a quick scrub down at the sink would have to suffice. 

As he exited the fresher, the others who began to stir also started their day. Ben opened the locker at the foot of his bunk and retrieved his clothes. Drab leggings, a short sleeved tee and flax colored tunic that wrapped around his waist and protected his arms from the worst of the twin suns’ rays. He gave them a quick sniff. They didn’t stink too bad. He could wear them one more time before he’d have to wash them. If he could wait another day, he’d be able to wash them with his bedding. 

He dressed in silence before he folded the blanket on his bed and placed it under his pillow. He sat down on his bunk as he pulled his boots on. Finally, he grabbed the brush one of the matrons had given him from the locker, pulled the snarls out of his hair and tossed it back where he found it. Ben may have let apathy grow a beard, but he wasn’t quite ready to sport the twisted dreads that some of the other slaves opted for out of convenience. 

Grabbing his water bottle from the stand beside his bed, Ben headed out to the balcony and the waiting stairwell. They sky was somewhere between the firsts oranges of dawn and the last purples of night. This was his time for himself, something he didn’t have to share with anyone. The Pits were always so loud that he, at times, swore he could hear others’ thoughts. The cacophony was usually overbearing come the end of the day. And it was in these quiet moments before the sun rose and the colony sprang to life that he found a semblance of peace. He didn’t have to talk to anyone. He could just sit at a table by himself in the mess and enjoy the solitary silence for a few minutes. 

His stomach rumbled and Ben made his way to the mess hall. The kitchen was already bustling and the other early risers were already eating their breakfast. Thank the Maker they had made the monthly quota last month. The ration restrictions had been lifted and he didn’t have to choke down protein paste and polystarch pucks three times a day. 

He filled his water bottle from the dispenser on the wall and grabbed a tray and utensils. Heading over to the serving line, a woman handed him a bowl of porridge made from grain berries. “Water is life, Ben,” she smiled as he took it from her hands. 

“Water is life, Asha,” he echoed back to her in thanks. 

Before he exited the line, he took two thick wedges of fresh black melon from the serving bowl and filled a cup with kaffa. He carried his tray to an empty table near the open entrance to the courtyard. It’s where he always sat in the morning. 

Drink more water, he reminded himself as he removed the cap from his water bottle and took a long draw from it before turning his attention to the porridge. He had about thirty minutes before he had to report to the garages. Emos would have a list of tasks for him to do the moment he got there—refueling speeders for the vaporator techs to use as they headed out to repair one of the many thousands of moisture collectors that dotted the collection farm. After that, it would likely he’d likely be buried in an engine trying to remember how to change out faulty motivators and ignition cores and hopefully remembering the difference between the two. If there was still time in the day, he’d be sent to sanitation duty, something he hated but couldn’t screw up bad enough to get beaten for making mistakes. 

During his first week in the Pits, Ben had managed to accidentally contaminate a potable cistern with bilge water. One of the Bitchqueen’s less magnanimous bosses had decided to teach him a lesson right then and there. A staff to the head, one gaping gash in his scalp and a standard day exposed to the elements in what amounted to a glorified hole in the ground before he had staggered deliriously back to his bunk concussed and dehydrated after his punishment had elapsed. It had taken three days before his kidneys were working properly again. All the more reason to drink more water, he could hear Amma Tu’usi say. His head still hurt from time to time, but he wouldn’t make that same mistake again, he thought to himself, his fingers absently probing the healing scar hidden in his hair. Unlike the numerous other scars that riddled his body, at least he knew where this one came from. 

“Hey,” a voice purred in his ear, dragging him from his thoughts. Edil, the blonde he had been auctioned off with when he had first arrived on-world reached over his shoulder a grabbed his cup of kaffa. She took a sip before returning it to his tray. Her other hand twirled a lock of his hair as she whispered. “It’s my fresher night. I was wondering if you wanted to share my shower with me tonight.” 

Ben could feel his cheeks flush. Surely he’d been with a woman before. He was nearly thirty. But like everything other memory from his past, it was still absent as well, and he couldn’t help feel like a nervous teenager. “I…” he stammered. 

She sweetened the deal with a soft kiss to the shell of his ear. “I’ll wash your hair.” 

A smile played across his face before he answered, “I’d like that.” 

Ben’s breath hitched in his chest as Edil pressed herself against his back. Her breath was hot on his neck. “I’ll see you at twenty-two-hundred.” 

And with that, she was gone, headed to the mess line where she was greeted by her waiting friends. 

“That,” a small voice said from across the table as a tray slammed on its surface, “is disgusting.” 

“That wasn’t for little ears to hear,” he replied as she sat down across from him. 

Ben didn’t say a word as he handed over one of his slices of melon and placed it on her tray. Yael smiled ear-to-ear. She picked off the tiny bit of charred rind that had rubbed on to the fruit’s orange flesh before she took a large bite. 

The little girl had stolen his fruit every morning since the ration restrictions were lifted. Somewhere around the third week, Ben started grabbing a second piece from the mess line that he saved just for her. It was just part of their morning routine. He loved how she would giggle when she thought she was being sneaky or how she reveled in the act as if she were some tough mob boss extracting her daily extortion fee. 

Yael wiped her mouth with the back of one hand. “Does she even like you?” she asked before she took a bite of her own porridge. 

“I suppose it means she does,” he answered. “Is that a problem?” 

Yael scowled. Sometimes she was so wise beyond her years.  She let out a little sigh and replied, “She’s just doing that because she wants your shower night too, you moof.” 

“Maybe she does,” he said. Yael shot him an incredulous look. “Maybe she doesn’t.” 

“Oooh, Ben,” she said in a dramatic falsetto voice higher than her own while batting her eyelashes, “I’m a pretty girl and you’re a big, dumb boy. Let me wash your hair while I steal all of your water on shower night.” 

He could feel his cheeks flushing again. There was nothing like having piss taken out of you by a seven-year-old girl. 

Two shovels of porridge later, she added, “So, are you going to, you know…” 

He was not going to have a conversation with a child about sex. Pointing his index finger at her, he snapped, “That is none of your business, Little Bug.” 

“Fine then,” she retorted before she reached over the table and stole his remaining wedge of black melon and stuck her tongue out at him. 

“Fine,” he answered and stuck his tongue out in return until they both started to laugh. He had yet to win a stare down with the little girl. Once again she’d bested him, and the stolen piece of fruit was her prize. 

They finished their breakfast in relative silence. Ben stood and was starting to collect their trays when the foreman Zev Patel approached them. 

“I’ve already told Emos I’ve taken you off garage detail,” Patel said. “I need you to report to Dak at the vaporators at the north end of the Pits in five minutes.” 

“Okay,” Ben answered a bit puzzled. “Did I do something wrong?” 

Patel smiled, “No, you’re fine. I’m promoting you. We need more field techs. You’re going to learn to repair moisture systems. Between the elements and the kriffing sand people smashing them up, we need more teams in the fields. Think you’re up for the task?” 

Ben nodded without thinking twice even though Dak had been the one who’d beat him with the staff and threw him in the hole. Being a vaporator tech meant more freedom. He could leave the Pits for most of the day without the foremen breathing down his back and waiting for him to step out of line or screw up. 

“Yeah, sure,” he added. 

“Good,” Zev answered as he exited the mess hall “I’ll let Dak know you’ll be up in a few. He’ll take it from there.” 

Ben drained what was left of his kaffa before clipping his water bottle to his belt. Yael was smiling back at him. “Ooh,” she teased. “Who did you bribe to get that job?” 

He scowled back at her. “No one,” he replied. Balancing their stacked trays and dishes in one hand, he leaned down and placed a small kiss on the top of her head. “Stay out of trouble, and do what Asha tells you.” 

“Don’t get thrown in the hole on your first day, Ben,” she snarked back. “At least wait a day before you kriff something up.” 

Ben couldn’t help but smile. She may only come up to the bottom of his ribs, but she packed a wallop. “I’ll try my best,” he quipped back. 

Yael took one last bite of the melon she was holding before answering, “Like I said, don’t get thrown in the hole.”

**Author's Note:**

> First fic in over a decade!
> 
> Welcome to the beginning of the journey. This is only the tip of the iceberg!
> 
> Panic with bacta was inspired by my one and only time I used a scuba regulator. If you've never done it before, there are a few seconds that you feel like you may die.
> 
> For a the record, Cymoon 1 and Weapons Factory Alpha really were a thing during the Empire. And it really did work under the lie of "fully automated" yet run entirely by slave labor.


End file.
